Bridged
by RealRedGold
Summary: Discouraged and uncertain after Joe's reappearance in Amanda's life, Lee gains perspective from an unexpected source.


Disclaimer: These characters belong to Warner Brothers and Shoot the Moon. The story is my own, and I wrote it only for entertainment and for the pleasure of Lee and Amanda's company in fiction. It is a "prequel" to "Locked," but it stands on its own as well. I hope that you enjoy it!

The man trudges across the pedestrian bridge, head down, immersed in his own dark thoughts. The cold March wind, careening down the river's length, hits him like a blow, and he tucks his chin, narrows his eyes, and buries his fists in the pockets of his leather jacket. The jacket isn't really warm enough for this kind of weather, but he ignores the discomfort of reddened hands and streaming eyes and keeps walking.

Once across the bridge, he finds his way down the broad steps and blindly turns aside. The Salzach, grey and churning, buckets through its riverbed on his left, and on his right, a row of brightly-lit shops and cafes runs parallel to the river. He ignores them both, instead following the sidewalk ahead of him numbly. The chestnut trees, still leafless at this time of year, arch over the park benches that face the water. The few pedestrians on the sidewalk all seem to be hurrying toward the warmth of homes, cafes, or restaurants, their woolen coats flapping and their scarves and hats tugged by the wind. Except for one.

Lee catches his breath sharply. She sits on one of the benches, very upright and slim. In profile, her face, with its high cheekbones and slender nose, resembles Katharine Hepburn's. Her dark hair is piled loosely on her head, with wisps trailing over the band collar of her coat. Her slacks are caramel colored, her coat a rich evergreen, and a little fountain of paisley scarf peeks out at her throat. Lee recognizes that her clothing is Trachtenmode—based on traditional Austrian designs, but with a slightly updated look. A patterned shopping bag rests on the bench beside her, along with a bunch of golden daffodils. The bouquet looks as bright as a flame on this overcast March afternoon, and as welcoming.

Drawn to the woman with the fiery daffodils and the familiar posture, Lee approaches the bench hesitantly. His body language—dropped shoulders, relaxed hands, tipped head—wordlessly convey the message, 'I'm no threat to you.' Lee does not want to give this woman one second of concern. He pauses several feet away from her.

"Grüß Gott, gnä' Frau," Lee says gently.

She sweeps her gaze from the river view and up at him. Lee is startled to see that her eyes are not deep brown, but hazel. A fine web of laugh lines spreads from their outer corners, and a slight smile lifts her mouth. She is fifty years old, he judges, perhaps more, and very lovely, with those fine bones and intelligent eyes.

"Grüß Gott, mein Herr," she answers in a slightly husky voice. "Was für ein schreckliches Wetter, nicht wahr? Aber ich mag einen Spaziergang jeden Tag, im Regen oder Sonnenschein zu nehmen. " Lee limps along mentally in translating this, but manages after a moment's thought: 'The weather is terrible today, isn't it? But I like to take a walk every day, rain or shine.' He struggles to form a response, but his basic German has apparently fled from him today, and it seems like too much effort to chase after it.

"Ich bin Amerikaner," he murmurs apologetically. "Entschuldigung. Sprechen Sie Englisch?" He finds himself hoping heavily that she does.

"Yes," she answers politely. "I could tell by your shoes. Your German accent is good, though. Would you like to sit?

He sinks down gratefully, the bouquet lying between himself and the woman, and gazes pensively at his long hands cupping his own knees. "'Grüß Gott' is the only phrase I could say and pass for an Austrian, even for a moment." He pauses. "Your English is excellent, by the way."

"Thank you. I lived in your country for eighteen months. In New York, years ago. I don't get many chances to speak English now, so I'm sure that all of my phrases are…how do you say? Eingerostet."

"Rusty," Lee replies, and smiles for the first time.

"Yes, rusty. Now tell me, what brings you to Salzburg? Business? Not many tourists visit in March. And you don't look like the type to come for a _Sound of Music_ tour, anyway."

A blade of regret pierces Lee unexpectedly. In his mind, he hears Amanda say, "And I don't even speak German. The only word I know is 'Edelweiss.' And I learned that from _The Sound of Music_. I saw it seven times." A memory of her mournful, disappointed face looking through the bars of a Munich jail cell flashes past him—through him. He had railed against her, telling her how much trouble she had caused him, blaming her for his missed weekend in the Poconos with Gillian, his voice tight with anger.

"Yes, business," he answers dully, but he's still in the grip of his memory. How could he have been so harsh with Amanda and so selfish? How did she put up with the bouts of anger that foamed up in him repeatedly during this past year? He tips his face into his hands, feeling sick with regret and longing. The woman asks if he is ill, and the kindness in her voice feels like a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"What is wrong?" she inquires softly. He doesn't dare look at her for fear of what she would see in his face.

"I was thinking of a friend." His voice is low and rough. He clears his throat nervously and runs the fingers of one hand through his hair, still avoiding the woman's thoughtful gaze. Looking for a fixed point of reference, he locks his eyes on the flowers beside him.

"And where is this friend now?"

"She's in Arlington, Virginia, near where I live."

"You miss your friend, yes?"

"Yes. I miss her…very much."

"Ah, you could telephone her. The time difference, let's see. It would still be eight o'clock in the morning, something like that. Not too earlier to hear from you." She shifts slightly on the bench; he can tell she thinks that this suggestion will dispel his sadness.

Lee is too upset to lie.

"It's not like that. She wouldn't expect to hear from me when I'm out of the country. We're friends, just friends. And business partners. I've told her so many times. And now, it's too late to change that, I think. I've waited too long." He is amazed that he is being so open with a stranger, yet he can't regret that he has told her this much, at least. Told someone, at last.

"Why do you say this? What harm is there in asking? In telling her that you care for her in a way that is…more than friends?"

Words spill out of him that he hasn't intended to speak. "Her ex-husband has come back to the US after working abroad for years. They have children—two boys." He pauses, and then grinds out the next sentence against his will. "She still cares for him, I know. Cares in some way." The memory of Amanda walking away from him hand-in-hand with Joe chills him from the inside out. He doesn't remember ever feeling as cold as he does at this moment.

"And you don't want to interfere? To be a—ah, what is the phrase in English? A dog in the manger?"

"Yes, that's it." He doesn't think that he can manage any more speech right now, so he's grateful for her momentary silence. Maybe she'll agree with him and that will somehow ease the ache he's been carrying ever since he saw the name "Joseph King" on the computer print-out, weeks ago now. He must think first of Amanda's wellbeing.

"As I recall the story, the dog keeps the oxen from the hay but doesn't want or need it himself. Is that you? Would you wish to keep your friend from finding happiness with another man and not offer her anything yourself?"

Who is this woman, Lee wonders—the voice of his conscience? But she's so kind. He would never be this kind to himself. "I wouldn't want to do that," he answers slowly, pushing away the memories of all the times he has tried to interrogate Amanda about her dates. "But I don't have much experience with…long-term relationships."

This sounds awfully weak even to him, and he can feel her gaze taking in his appearance. Oddly, he thinks that she will see his cracking pain as well as the handsome façade that has fooled so many people throughout the years. Although it has never fooled Amanda…

Her sigh contains a touch of exasperation, he thinks. "May I ask your name?" Her voice is brisk now.

"Lee."

"Tja, Lee, I think you are doing your friend a wrong—an injustice. Who are you to make decisions for her? Give her some information and let her decide for herself. That will be a risk for you, yes, but she deserves that much, nicht wahr? She deserves the truth from you. No guts, no glory, my friend."

Lee's head swivels sharply toward her. How did she know? She is gazing calmly back at him, her hazel eyes wise, and yes, a little impatient. She speaks three more words emphatically: "Make a stand." Then she briefly covers his chilly clasped hands with both of her warm ones. He notes the golden band a little loose on her finger. She gathers up her shopping bag and flowers, smiles encouragingly at him, and says, "Auf Wiedersehen, Lee."

He gathers his wits enough to say, "Vielen Dank für das Gespräch. Nett Sie kennenzulernen." 'Thanks for the talk; nice to meet you' seems inadequate, but he wants to speak his last words to her in German, for some reason.

She nods, smiling. "Angenehm. Greetings to…?" She pauses expectantly.

"Amanda." It feels so good to say her name aloud.

"Lovely name. Greetings to Amanda."

Lee watches for a moment as she walks toward the bridge. It is late afternoon now, and a band of sunshine has slipped underneath the bruised-looking clouds, glowing gold on the Salzach. As Lee follows the woman's slight figure crossing the river, he notices the twinkling of the lovers' locks that are clipped by the hundreds to the wire mesh of the bridge, each one carrying a pair of names. Trained to observe his surroundings whether he is truly engaged with them or not, he paused yesterday to examine the locks before moving dully on. Now, an idea stirs in his mind. A small way to take a stand. Even if Amanda never sees this bridge, he needs to show how he feels about her. He thinks about the nearby shop where he bought some electronic supplies earlier and about the rows of padlocks displayed there. Feeling a fresh gust of hope blow through him, he rises from the bench and walks along the river, his eyes on the bridge ahead. On Thursday, he will fly home again. But first, the bridge. Perhaps a red lock for his name and Amanda's. With a key. That, he will give to the river.


End file.
